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Best Tales of the Yukon
Best Tales of the Yukon
Best Tales of the Yukon
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Best Tales of the Yukon

Автор Robert W Service

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When Robert W. Service was transferred to the Whitehorse Branch of the Canadian Bank of Commerce in the Yukon Territory in 1904, six years after the Klondike Gold Rush, his career as a world-famous poet would soon begin. Inspired by the beauty of the Yukon wilderness, Service would write some of the most expressive poetry of the age depicting the trials and tribulations of the Yukon gold mining life. "Best Tales of the Yukon" collects together forty-seven of these poems. Selected from two of his earliest volumes, "Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses" and "Ballads of a Cheechako", this volumes includes some of Service’s most memorable poetry including the classics "The Shooting of Dan McGrew", "The Law of the Yukon", and "The Cremation of Sam McGee".
ЯзыкEnglish
ИздательDigireads.com Publishing
Дата выпуска1 янв. 2013 г.
ISBN9781420936834
Best Tales of the Yukon
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Автор

Robert W Service

Robert W. Service (1874-1958) was born in Preston, Lancashire, England, and came to Canada in 1895, eventually ending up in Yukon Territory in 1904, five years after the Klondike Gold Rush. His many books include the poetry collection The Songs of a Sourdough, the novel The Trail of '98, and the autobiography Ploughman of the Moon. Service later moved to France, where he died.

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  • Рейтинг: 5 из 5 звезд
    5/5
    My Scoutmaster, Mark Kreuger, used to recite "The Cremation of Sam McGee" aruond the campfire when Troop 45 went on camp-outs. I've never enjoyed poetry as much.I grabbed this inexpensive edition when I saw it in a campus bookstore, and now I need to memorize "Cremation" and several others.

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Best Tales of the Yukon - Robert W Service

BEST TALES OF THE YUKON

BY ROBERT W. SERVICE

A Digireads.com Book

Digireads.com Publishing

Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-3352-9

Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-3683-4

This edition copyright © 2012

Please visit www.digireads.com

CONTENTS

L'ENVOI

You who have lived in the land . . .

TO THE MAN OF THE HIGH NORTH

My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming . . .

THE MEN THAT DON'T FIT IN

There's a race of men that don't fit in . . .

THE RHYME OF THE RESTLESS ONES

We couldn't sit and study for the law . . .

THE YOUNGER SON

If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land . . .

THE THREE VOICES

The waves have a story to tell me . . .

THE CALL OF THE WILD

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on . . ?

THE SONG OF THE MOUTH-ORGAN

I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone . . .

THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT

Gold! We leapt from our benches.

Gold! We sprang from our stools . . .

THE LAND GOD FORGOT

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn . . .

THE BALLAD OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS

One of the Down and Out-that's me. Stare at me well, aye, stare!

COMFORT

Say! You've struck a heap of trouble . . .

THE BALLAD OF GUM-BOOT BEN

He was an old prospector with a vision bleared and dim.

THE LOW-DOWN WHITE

This is the pay-day up at the mines,

when the bearded brutes come down . . .

THE MAN FROM ELDORADO

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's just arrived in town . . .

THE RECKONING

It's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant . . .

THE SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon . . .

THE HARPY

There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she . . .

THE BALLAD OF THE BLACK FOX SKIN

There was Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike living the life of shame . . .

THE BALLAD OF ONE-EYED MIKE

This is the tale that was told to me by the man with the crystal eye . . .

THE PINES

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian Pines . . .

THE WOOD-CUTTER

The sky is like an envelope . . .

THE TELEGRAPH OPERATOR

I will not wash my face . . .

THE BALLAD OF PIOUS PETE

I tried to refine that neighbor of mine, honest to God, I did . . .

THE LONE TRAIL

Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it . . .

THE SONG OF THE WAGE-SLAVE

When the long, long day is over,

and the Big Boss gives me my pay . . .

THE PROSPECTOR

I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in Ninety-Eight . . .

MY FRIENDS

The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief . . .

THE BLACK SHEEP

Hark to the ewe that bore him . . .

CLANCY OF THE MOUNTED POLICE

In the little Crimson Manual it's written plain and clear . . .

MUSIC IN THE BUSH

O'er the dark Pines she sees the silver moon . . .

THE BALLAD OF HARD-LUCK HENRY

Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank . . ?

THE LURE OF LITTLE VOICES

There's a cry from out the loneliness-oh, listen, Honey, listen!

PREMONITION

'Twas a year ago and the moon was bright . . .

THE SPELL OF THE YUKON

I wanted the gold, and I sought it . . .

MEN OF THE HIGH NORTH

Men of the High North, the wild sky is blazing . . .

THE RHYME OF THE REMITTANCE MAN

There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging

in the shadow of my cabin . . .

THE CREMATION OF SAM MCGEE

There are strange things done in the midnight sun . . .

THE BALLAD OF BLASPHEMOUS BILL

I took a contract to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie . . .

THE TRAMPS

Can you recall, dear comrade,

when we tramped God's land together . . ?

GRIN

If you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about . . .

THE HEART OF THE SOURDOUGH

There, where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon . . .

THE LITTLE OLD LOG CABIN

When a man gits on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town . . .

THE PARSON'S SON

This is the song of the parson's son, as he squats in his shack alone . . .

THE LAW OF THE YUKON

This is the Law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain . . .

LOST

Black is the sky. but the land is white . . .

L'ENVOI

We talked of yesteryears, of trails and treasure . . .

L'ENVOI

[1907]

You who have lived in the land,

You who have trusted the trail,

You who are strong to withstand,

You who are swift to assail:

Songs have I sung to beguile,

Vintage of desperate years,

Hard as a harlot's smile,

Bitter as unshed tears.

Little of joy or mirth,

Little of ease I sing;

Sagas of men of earth

Humanly suffering,

Such as you all have done;

Savagely faring forth,

Sons of the midnight sun,

Argonauts of the North.

Far in the land God forgot

Glimmers the lure of your trail;

Still in your lust are you taught

Even to win is to fail.

Still you must follow and fight

Under the vampire wing;

There in the long, long night

Hoping and vanquishing.

Husbandman of the Wild,

Reaping a barren gain;

Scourged by desire, reconciled

Unto disaster and pain;

These, my songs, are for you,

You who are seared with the brand.

God knows I have tried to be true;

Please God you will understand.

TO THE MAN OF THE HIGH NORTH

My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming

I've drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream,

Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming,

Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam.

I was the thrall of Beauty that rejoices

From peak snow-diademed to regal star;

Yet to mine aerie ever pierced the voices,

The pregnant voices of the Things That Are.

The Here, the Now, the vast Forlorn around us;

The gold-delirium, the ferine strife;

The lusts that lure us on, the hates that hound us;

Our red rags in the patch-work quilt of Life.

The nameless men who nameless rivers travel,

And in strange valleys greet strange deaths alone;

The grim, intrepid ones who would unravel

The mysteries that shroud the Polar Zone.

These will I sing, and if one of you linger

Over my pages in the Long, Long Night,

And on some lone line lay a calloused finger,

Saying: It's human-true—it hits me right;

Then will I count this loving toil well spent;

Then will I dream awhile—content, content.

THE MEN THAT DON'T FIT IN

There's a race of men that don't fit in,

A race that can't stay still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood,

And they climb the mountain's crest;

Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,

And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;

They are strong and brave and true;

But they're always tired of the things that are,

And they want the strange and new.

They say: "Could I find my proper groove,

What a deep mark I would make!"

So they chop and change, and each fresh move

Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs

With a brilliant, fitful pace,

It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones

Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled,

Forgets that his prime is past,

Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,

In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;

He has just done things by half.

Life's been a jolly good joke on him,

And now is the time to laugh.

Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;

He was never meant to win;

He's

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